Severus Snape: International Man of Mystery
by Evil Yellow Day Moon
Summary: A Snape ficlet where he talks about his work as a spy, his training, the sacrifices he's made, and the lack of job perks.


Disclaimer: You know how this goes. This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
Severus Snape: International man of Mystery  
  
Just when things seemed to be going my way, good old fate has to kick me down again. All I asked for was forgiveness, redemption, and a chance to start anew. I was calm, tactful, every bit the gentleman as I pleaded with Dumbledore not to order the members of the Order of the Phoenix not to blast my sorry hide to smithereens as I interrupted their meeting. Somehow my manners and breeding managed to work against me.  
  
I come for absolution of my sins and I get the last thing I expected.a job offer.as a spy of all things. One day I'm torturing Muggles in a London alley and I'm an official, card-carrying undercover agent the next. What a mad world we live in, isn't it?  
  
Be certain of this. Snape's do not spy. We do on occasion hire them, but that is beside the point. Dumbledore hires me, out of the blue, with out even glancing at my glancing at a list of my references or an interview. Hell, he could have just skimmed over my résumé at the very least. I spent a great deal of time and effort creating it and for what? I pray to God that he is more meticulous in his selection of professors than his spies.  
  
As for the job it's self? It doesn't pay near enough what I'd like. I've had to go with out a few luxuries. No more Guatemalan Juan's Signature blend coffee for Agent Snape. No more English muffins either. For breakfast it's plain old black Folgers from Mr. Coffee's House of Java and "toasted" Pillsbury biscuits. They don't toast well let me tell you. One day I'll get my revenge on Pop'n'Fresh. Damn that doughboy, giggling like a little schoolgirl. Doesn't he realize there's a war on that could decide the fate of the entire magical world and he's not helping with his non-toastable instant dinner rolls.  
  
I have yet another complaint. When I took this position I assumed there would me a great deal of equipment that would need to perform my assignment quickly, remaining inconspicuous. I would be the James Bond of my day. Watches that exploded, jet-packs, and cars that ran up to 130 kilometers an hour and had a buxom, blonde push-over riding shotgun in my sports car were all part of the spy game.  
  
Oh how very, very wrong I was.  
  
Dumbledore believed it would attract too much unwanted attention if I were equipped with some of the things stated above. I must agree, but I can't help but pray that a plague will curse all of his loved ones, worse than that in Egypt. Is it so much to ask that this job have some perks? Apparently it is.  
  
There was a great deal of training involved. Everyday I would arrive at our Headquarters and I would undergo 7 hours of "conditioning". Conditioning translates into having the shit kicked out of me by some Aurour bird named Fiona Martin. She didn't look that strong and wasn't intimidating in the slightest until she kicked me so hard that I went from a bass to a tenor faster than you can say "Ow." And when I looked up at her all I managed to squeak was, "Damn good shot." Quite a gift I have with words isn't it?  
  
Alastor Moody also had a part in my daily routine. That man is a blue- ribbon schizophrenic, constantly grumbling to the voices in his head. He thinks they're out to get him as well. He is aptly named I must say. He could leap from one emotion to the next in a heartbeat. One moment he'd lecture me on the importance of never revealing my position, nice and calm then he'd shout "CONSTANT VIGALENCE!" loud enough for the entire world to hear. I was temporarily deaf in my left ear afterward.  
  
My mission tomorrow, if I choose to accept it, is to gather information for the Order and get home in time for dinner. I'll stay up late, with my box of Chinese take out, thinking about all the things this job means.  
  
I think about the fact that I've been beaten to a pulp by a girl approximately half my size.  
  
I remember that I get no special spy equipment, not even a damn tape recorder/fountain pen.  
  
I wonder why I'm trying to live off of Folgers from Mr. Coffee's House of Java and "toasted" Pillsbury biscuits. I miss my English muffins and Guatemalan Juan's Signature blend coffee.  
  
And there is no buxom, blonde pushover riding shotgun in my speeding sports car. 


End file.
